"Where've you been?" Holland asked. He stepped into a shop doorway to escape the noise of the traffic.

"Sorry. I only just got your message. I fancied a lie-in . . ."

"Where are you?"

"Hang on . . . I can't see a street sign. I'm somewhere round the back of the National Gallery."

"I was looking for you at the theater."

"That's where I normally am."

"I know. I went in to the London Lift when you didn't return the call and that's where Brendan said you'd be."

"I moved," Thorne said.

Holland grunted, relieved that Thorne was okay but p.i.s.sed off that he'd spent all morning running around like a blue-a.r.s.ed fly, trying to find him. "We've had a bit of luck," he said.

"What?"

"Where can we meet?"

The three of them had walked the length of Oxford Street before Spike and Caroline had gone down into the subways beneath Marble Arch to catch up on some sleep. Thorne had crossed the road into Hyde Park and sat down on a bench near one of the cafes at Speakers' Corner.

This triangle at the northeast corner of the park should have been a pleasant enough place to sit at this time of year. Even if the verge adjoining the bridle path had been freshly churned into mud, elsewhere the autumn crocuses were in full bloom, bright and lively. The railed-in lawns were still lush, and despite the plastic bags that danced from many of the branches, the leaves provided plenty more color a little higher up-green, and bronze, and b.u.t.ter yellow on the ash trees.

Thorne knew that twenty-four hours earlier, as on every Sunday morning, the political pundits, the zealots, and the nutcases would have been out in force. They'd have been up on their soapboxes, shouting about freedom and enlightenment, and aliens sending messages through their toasters, each one honoring the tradition of free speech that had been guaranteed on this spot by act of Parliament a hundred and twentyfive years before. Halfway through this bleak Monday, freezing his t.i.ts off and with a headache just starting to kick in, Thorne found it far easier to picture the gallows at Tyburn, which had stood on the same spot for centuries before that. It was less effort to imagine the creak of a body swinging-of twenty- four at one time from the Triple Tree-and the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd than to conjure the voices of debate and discussion.

Holland dropped down onto the bench next to him and nodded toward the corner. A semicircle of pin oaks had been planted on its farthest boundary, fiery red against the off-white brickwork on the far side of Park Lane. "What would you want to get off your chest, then?"

"Eh?"

"If you had a crowd, and you could talk about anything you liked . . ."

It was one of the main reasons why Thorne enjoyed having Holland around; why Thorne had made himself unpopular with anyone who'd stepped, however briefly, into the former DC's shoes. Holland had the pleasing knack of being able to punch through the hard sh.e.l.l of a black mood with one glib comment or seemingly innocent inquiry; with a stupid question in too cheery a voice. There were occasions, if Thorne was feeling particularly a.r.s.ey, when he put this down to insensitivity on Holland's part, but more frequently he saw it to be the exact opposite.

"G.o.d knows," Thorne said. "The way things are going, I think I'll end up as one of the toasters-andaliens brigade."

"Sorry?"

Thorne shook his head. It didn't matter. "What about you?"

"Where d'you want to start? I'd try to win the crowd over to the idea that all children should be taken into care between the ages of one and sixteen. I'd ask them to support my campaign for police paternity leave to be extended to, say, five years, and to include free alcohol and Caribbean holidays. I'd ask if any of them wanted to sleep with me . . ."

"Things a bit sticky at home?"

"How much room is there in your doorway?"

Thorne did his best to smile, and leaned back on the bench. He watched a pair of squirrels chase each other around a litter bin; saw a fat magpie hop lazily away as one of them ran at it.

Holland took off his gloves as he reached down to pull something from his briefcase. "I'm only joking," he said.

It was a magazine. Glossy, with a picture of a grimfaced soldier on the front: sand all around and in sandbags at his feet; sheets of dust rising black behind him. In bold red lettering across the top: glorious.

"It's the regimental magazine," Holland said. "That's their nickname: the 'Glory Boys' or the 'Glorious Twelfth.' A woman from their HQ sent it. She's the a.s.sistant adjutant . . ."

"She sent it to you?"

"Just arrived out of the blue. It's the Spring 1991 issue."

Thorne threw him a sideways look as he began to flick through the magazine.

"I'm sure she was genuinely trying to help." Holland tried to summon a c.o.c.ky grin, but blushed despite himself. "But I think she did take a shine to me . . ."

"It's b.l.o.o.d.y typical," Thorne said. "The finest detectives on the force applying themselves twenty-four hours a day, and we get a break because some woman, who's clearly mad or desperate, thinks you've got a nice a.r.s.e."

The magazine was a mixture of regimental news and notices. There were letters, quizzes, and book reviews; advertis.e.m.e.nts for modeling kits, financial services, and shooting weekends. There were obituaries for those who had long since left the regiment and for some who had died more recently, while on active service.

About half the magazine was taken up by articles and photographs. All these were the work of serving soldiers, and the majority of them concerned what had, in spring 1991, been the very recent conflict in the Gulf: "Christmas in Kuwait"; "Desert Shield-A Trooper's Perspective"; "Into the Storm."

"That's the one," Holland said. He leaned across and pointed to where a page had been marked by a piece of paper. "That's the page she wanted us to see."

Thorne unfolded the bookmark. It was headed with the regimental crest and Latin motto. The message was handwritten in blue ink: Thought this would be a shot in the dark, but I think we struck lucky. The photograph is what you'll probably be most interested in. Lt. Sarah Cheshire.

"No kiss?" Thorne asked.

"I'm not listening," Holland said. He pointed to a black-and-white photo that took up half a page of the magazine. "Our four men are somewhere among that lot . . ."

Two dozen or so soldiers had posed for the camera, arranged in front of, around, and in many cases on top of three battle tanks. They all wore desert camouflage and berets. Each carried a rifle and no more than a few of them were smiling. There was a caption to the right of the picture: D Troop, 2nd Sabre Squadron. Bremenhaven. October 1990.

"Just before they were posted to the Gulf," Holland said. He reached over again and jabbed a finger toward one of the soldiers. The faces were small in shot, the features indistinct. "That's Jago . . ."

Thorne looked at the list of names beneath the photograph. Jago's was certainly there, but the list was not structured in any way. It was impossible to tell how the names corresponded to the men in the picture, gathered as arbitrarily as they were.

"How do you know?" Thorne asked.

"We scanned the photo and e-mailed it to Susan Jago. She picked her brother out for us."

"She pick out anybody else?"

"She told us before that she'd only seen one photo of the crew together . . . and that was years ago."

Thorne studied the photograph. He thought he could read fear-apprehension, at least-on one or two of the faces, but decided in the end that he was simply projecting. He couldn't see what was in the heads and hearts of these soldiers any better than he'd been able to see what was in the eyes of the four he'd watched committing murder on a grainy videotape. Those men were in front of him at that moment; he was looking at their faces. And now, if any were still alive, there was a way to trace them.

"How did they get away with it, Dave? How did no one find out what they'd done?"

"Maybe someone did," Holland said. "The army might have known and hushed it up . . ."

Thorne wasn't convinced. "Or maybe they just buried the bodies." He ran that through his mind for a moment; thought about holes being dug in wet sand once the camera had been switched off. Thinking about the tape reminded him of something else. "Any word back from the lab yet? They were going to try and sort out the sound on the video . . ."

Holland rolled his eyes. "Believe it or not, we've now sent it to a special unit at the University of California . . ."

"They can't do it here?"

"Not if you want a result this side of Christmas."

"Jesus." Thorne handed the magazine back to Holland. "I presume we're going back to the army with these names."

"Yeah, and this should make things p.i.s.s-easy for them. We know none of them are still serving with the Twelfth King's Hussars, but we should be able to find out if any have moved anywhere else within the service. And now we've got the names, we can finally get on to the Army Personnel Centre."

"I think we should start trying to locate them ourselves at the same time, though." Thorne got to his feet. "We might find them faster than the army can."

"That's the plan," Holland said. "We just need to get hold of someone with a decent memory. Someone who can remember the other three who were in Jago's tank crew."

"Start with the rarest names, right? Leave the Smiths and Joneses till last . . ."

"Really?" Holland looked across at Thorne like he was telling him how to tie his shoelaces.

Thorne returned the look with k.n.o.bs on. "Okay . . . Sorry, Sergeant."

"We're s.h.i.t out of luck as far as that goes, anyway." Holland pulled on his gloves and stood up. "Nothing too outlandish, I'm afraid. Not a single Private Parts or Corporal Clutterbuck among them . . ."

They walked south toward the Serpentine.

It had started to drizzle, and Holland reached instinctively for the umbrella in his case, then stopped when he saw Thorne moving through the rain as if he were unaware of it.

"So why did you move?" Holland asked. "Are you trying to lower the tone in as many places as possible?"

"No choice. The bloke whose pitch I took is coming back. Today or maybe tomorrow. These things tend not to be very specific . . ."

When Thorne had seen him the day before, Spike had been insistent that Terry T was on his way back to London. He'd heard a definite rumor, at any rate, and seeing as how Terry would want his pitch back, it was a good idea for Thorne to look around for somewhere new to bed down. Terry T was a big bloke, after all, Spike had said, and with a seriously vicious temper. Thorne had taken the bait, pretending to fall for the same gag he hadn't fallen for on the first night he and Spike had met . . .

"How's the face feel?" Holland asked. This was the first day he'd laid eyes on Thorne since his arrest, and the first time he'd mentioned Thorne's souvenirs of the occasion.

"What, have you only just noticed it?"

"I didn't think you'd want people banging on about it . . ."

"Because I got my face smashed in?" Thorne's tone was suddenly edgy, and snide. "Or because of why?" They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

"Obviously, it looks pretty bad," Holland said. "The face, I mean. I just wondered if it hurt much, that's all. Thought maybe you could get Phil Hendricks to bung you a few painkillers or something."

Thorne felt bad that he'd been snappy before. "Don't worry about the face, Holland. It looks like s.h.i.t, but beneath the bruises, my looks remain undamaged."

"That's a shame," Holland said.

They came out onto Carriage Drive opposite Hyde Park Corner. Thorne had decided to take the long way back and walk into the West End along Piccadilly. Holland was planning to catch the tube back up to Colindale.

"Do you want to know the worst thing about you being promoted?" Thorne asked. "I can no longer enjoy the simple pleasure of calling you Constable as if it's spelled with a U and an extra T . . ."

Sat.u.r.day had been a bit hectic, but he'd got what he needed, and the rest of the weekend had actually been very pleasant. He'd taken a boat trip down to Greenwich and wandered around the Maritime Museum. Sitting in a nice pub by the river, he'd had a couple of pints and a Sunday lunch with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Later, he'd poked around a few of the little antiquey places and secondhand shops. He'd bought a computer game and a black suede jacket from the market.

If you could be bothered to look, there were plenty of places like that in London, north and south of the river; places with some charm and individuality; with a little bit of character. You couldn't help but wonder why those who ended up on the street chose to congregate like rats around the West End. Were they drawn to the bright lights or something? Did they think it was glamorous? He didn't understand it. Surely they could have gone wherever they fancied, slept wherever they liked. Wasn't that one of the few good things about being homeless?

For all that he'd learned about the lives of these people-and he'd made it his business to learn a great deal-he couldn't help but think that, for some of them, it was a lifestyle choice. There were a few, of course-the ones who were soft in the head or whatever-who would never be able to cope and were always going to end up on the margins of society, but for others it seemed to be about preference. From what he could see, those people didn't want to help themselves and scorned any offer of a.s.sistance from others. It was hard to have any real sympathy with that sort . . .

Bearing in mind what he'd been doing, he knew full well that he could hardly have been expected to think any other way, but that was genuinely his opinion on the subject. He firmly believed that he could do what he'd done and still be, you know, objective about what went on in the world. The people who had died had done so for no other reason than simple necessity. What had been done-what he'd had to do-was about no more than self-preservation. Well, that and the money, of course.

But nothing else.

He could honestly say that he hadn't borne any illwill toward anyone he'd ever killed.

Today, with more work to do, he wasn't quite as relaxed as he had been when ambling about in Greenwich. It should all have been done and dusted by now, but when it came to protecting yourself, being safe rather than sorry was the only sensible approach.

He was spending a dreary Monday mastering his new computer game; sharpening up his reflexes and concentrating his mind. He'd get back to the matter in hand tomorrow.

TWENTY-THREE.

As a trainee detective constable, Jason Mackillop was desperate for any chance to make an impression. It was easy to get lost on a major investigation such as this one. But it was also possible, if you were in the right place at the right time, with the right people at the end of the phone, to go from donkey to hero in a few minutes. They hadn't talked much about luck on the five-week Detective Training Course at Hendon, but all the trainees knew it was every bit as important as the stuff they had been taught: forensics; crime-scene management; handling exhibits; disclosure of evidence; performance in the witness box.

At twenty-three, he was relatively young for a TDC. He was perhaps no more than six months away from being a.s.signed as a full DC, but after the probation, the year on relief, and the two more as a dogsbody on the Crime Squad, he was more than ready to step up. He'd already proved he could handle himself in most formal areas of the job, and catching a break like this one certainly couldn't hurt . . .

Mackillop put down the phone, took a deep breath, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the piece of paper on which he'd been scribbling. He needed to pa.s.s on the information quickly, but for a second or two he wasn't completely certain as to whom. Should he observe the chain of command or just go straight to the most senior officer he could find? If he did, would he risk putting noses out of joint? It was fantastic to impress, but it might be a very bad move to alienate those just a step or two farther up the ladder than he was.

He glanced around the incident room, feeling the paper warm against his sweaty fingers. They were a good bunch, by and large, with no more t.o.s.s.e.rs than you'd expect on any team of this size: Andy Stone was the sort of bloke you'd like as a mate, but Mackillop was unsure how good a copper he was; Kitson seemed well liked, but she sometimes had that look, like you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her; Holland could be a bit distant, though he'd only just been promoted, and was bound to have a lot on his plate. Mackillop had never met Tom Thorne, the team's absent DI, but he'd certainly heard enough about him . . .

Looking around, trying to make his mind up, he saw that Kitson was watching him from a spot by the coffee machine. Her eye flicked from his face to the piece of paper he was now wafting nervously from the end of his outstretched arm.

"All right, Jason?"

"Guv . . ."

Mackillop walked across, decision made, and within a minute he knew it had been the right one. Once he'd finished telling her about the phone call and shown her what he'd written down, Kitson had done exactly as he'd hoped she'd do: she'd congratulated him on a job well done, then pointed him straight toward the DCI's office.

He couldn't see Spike or One-Day Caroline, and guessed they'd be in later, but there were plenty of faces Thorne did recognize as he looked around. He saw Holy Joe, and the drunk who'd shouted at him outside St. Clement Danes, and others he'd exchanged a story or two with at the soup runs around the Strand.

He asked if any of the unfamiliar faces belonged to Terry T.

Brendan Maxwell craned his head, panned quickly around the cafe, then went back to his breakfast. "No, I can't see him. Why?"

"That's his spot I've been bedding down in most nights and Spike reckons he's coming back. So I've got to find somewhere else."

"Doesn't hurt to move around a bit," Maxwell said.